Operator
by BarbaraGER
Summary: Pre-Series – The dial tone was mocking him. Every tone a kick in the jewels. Every stupid sound provoking him. What are you gonna say? Why do you think he's going to talk to you at all? – After a hunt gone terribly wrong, John has to call Sam at Stanford.
1. Chapter 1

**OPERATOR**

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><p><em><strong>Story type:<strong> Multichapter_

_**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Family  
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_**Characters:** Sam, John  
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_**Timeline:** Pre-Series_

_**Summary:**__The dial tone was mocking him. It rang and rang. Every tone a kick in the jewels. Every stupid sound provoking him. What are you gonna say? Why do you think he's going to talk to you at all? What if he hangs up? – After a hunt gone terribly wrong, John has to call Sam at Stanford._

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><p><em><strong>Author's notes<strong>: This, my excited friends, is an experiment. It started with my best friend Kate (better known an MeAzrael - applause, please!) and me having a coffee break and thinking about writing a story with John. Me, I'm a John-fan, you have to know. I don't see him as this bad, heartless man, incapable to love his children yadda yadda...so, Kate and me, we were juggling a few ideas and I asked her if it might be possible **to write a story solely based on phone calls**. And after a few 'I don't know's'...'Are you sure's'...'That's pretty tough's'... and 'Might not work's'... – I tried it._

_And now you have to read the result. Congratulations!_

_Thanks **MeAzrael** for supporting me and my weirdo idea and keeping an eye on my spelling and my logic and all those thing that might go wrong. You rock!  
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_I remind you that neither my Beta nor me are english natives – if you find some funny mistakes feel free to let me know – I'd really appreciate it! I also appreciate to hear your opinions – if you think my story sucks, let me know (maybe a few words why it sucks), if you have a few nice words for me: they're always welcome!  
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**_And here's the disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW – no money's made with this work._**

_**One more thing: I'm going to post this one daily!** It's finished and there'll be one new chapter each day – sometimes it'll be a long chapter, sometimes it'll be short.  
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><p><strong>Chapter 01<strong>

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><p>Dial tones.<p>

Funny that those had become a significant part of his life. He had listened to them a countless times while preparing himself for a role. Agent Plant, doctor Burdon, detective McNally. He could relate dial tones with so many emotions and feelings. On rare occasions it had been fear or anxiety. It had been mostly foreboding, curiosity or eagerness.

But this time it was different.

This time he wasn't an agent, not a doctor, no detective.

This time he was John. And he was going to fill that particular role which had always been the hardest for him. The one he always seemed to screw up.

He tried to be a father.

The dial tone was mocking him. It rang and rang. Every tone a kick in the jewels. Every stupid sound provoking him.

What are you gonna say?

Why do you think he's going to talk to you at all?

What if he hangs up?

No, fear and anxiety had been rare emotions in the past when it came to phone calls. But rare didn't mean non-existing.

And right now John needed everything to keep himself from hanging up.

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's notes:** Ah. There are actually a few souls accepting the challenge. Warm greetings to all of you. Enjoy chapter 2 and find out more!_**  
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><p><strong>Chapter 02<strong>

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><p>" <em>'lo?"<em>

He fought the urge to flinch, only to get slapped in the face by disappointment when he noticed that this wasn't the voice he had expected. Like a stranded fish he opened and closed his mouth, his brain screaming at him to say something.

"_Hello? Who's there?"_

Get your shit together, John. What are you, twelve? Open your damn mouth.

"_Who's this?"_

There was a second voice in the background, sounding annoyed and tired. Nice one, Winchester, maybe next time wait for morning to break before you make your phone calls.

"This is...my name's John..." Finally.

There was a pause and a sigh before the girl spoke on. _"Okay, John. Do you know what time it is?"_ It was softly asked, with a lot of empathy, and for a moment John was taken aback. He wanted to say something when he heard the second voice in the background again. The voice that sounded a lot more like the one he had been expected to hear.

"Listen, I'm sorry to disturb, I need to..."

Another sound, a cracking and creaking, a rustling, a mumbling.

"_Dad?"_

This time John flinched. Squeezing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, he lowered his head and gripped his phone tight as if it were a life line.

"_Dad? That you?"_

He had dreaded this moment. Hadn't known how their interaction would go off. How much hate would be left. How much anger. He had feared that he might be overwhelmed by chagrin and fury once again, that the past 18 months might haven't been enough for both of them to put some daylight between them.

His son didn't sound relieved. Or glad. But he didn't sound angry either. Cold and distant, yes. But there was no wrath. At least not yet.

"Yeah Sam, it's me." 18 months. It had been such a long time. "How are you?"

There was a sigh. Not the soft, understanding one he had heard earlier from the girl. But an irritated one. He could live with that. So, Sam lived with a girl. Or had one staying overnight. Interesting.

"_What's this about?"_ came the question, _"It's 4 o'clock in the morning."_

"Yeah, I know. I just..." ...need to talk to you. I don't know how to say it. And I know you're going to accuse me. And I'm sorry, I know I screwed up. Big time.

"_How about you lay down for a few more hours and call me again when sun's up."_

"No...Sam. It's important. I...are you alone? Who's the lady?"

A long pause. _"My girlfriend."_ Another pause. _"Dad, are you drunk?"_

What was that supposed to mean now? Did he sound drunk? Oh boy, was he sober. He hadn't been that sober in years. Funny thing was, right now he wished he wasn't. He wished he would be drowning in a lake of Bourbon, pain and grief and despair drowning along with him.

"What makes you say that?" John answered sharply, feeling a surge of anger spike in him, "So calling you is something I'd never do without a bottle of Jack drifting through my blood, is that what you're saying?"

"_Well, you haven't called in one and a half years, remember? So calling in the middle of the night to ask how I am is kinda weird, don't you think?" _

John gripped his phone so tight his fingers started to hurt. Snippy brat. How was it possible that this kid always managed to push the right buttons?

"Whatever", he whispered, swallowing heavily. He wouldn't fight with Sam. Not now. That hadn't been his intention when he had picked up the phone. This was about something else. About someone else. "Listen Sam, I don't want to argue with you now, okay?"

And suddenly he sounded so damn small, like some whiney little loser on hands and knees and fuck, he felt exactly like it because there just wasn't any strength left in him.

"_Dad. What's wrong?" _Of course Sam smelled the rat. The sudden change in his tone, from annoyed to concerned in seconds, the perfect sidekick to John's sorrowful rasping. _"Dean. It's Dean, right?"_

Oh yes, when it came to his big brother Sam owned the sixth sense.

"He's the reason I'm calling you, yes..." John replied bitterly, knowing full well that there was no turning back now.

"_What's wrong? Where is he?"_

For a moment John wondered if Sam would react the same way if Dean would call him like this, telling him that something was wrong with their dad. If his youngest would sound as worried and appalled. But then, those two always had an amazing relationship.

"Sam..."

"_Don't Sam-me, okay? I wanna know where he is."_

Okay. So no sugar coating then.

"He's in hospital. ICU." John paused, hesitating. "It's bad, kiddo." He stopped, afraid of getting overwhelmed by emotions. Emotions he wasn't sure it was wise to lay bare right now. Yes, he was a father. And he was worried sick, scared shitless over Dean. But right now he needed a clear head. For Sam's sake.

"_Bad",_ Sam whispered, and John was sure he could feel his youngest son's shock over the phone, _"how bad?"_

"Very bad." Always the questions, always more details. "He might not make it, Sam."

There, he had said it. Now what about the saying that a load put on two sets of shoulders was easier to carry? He didn't feel a change. Nothing was easier. He still felt the dread pushing down on him, the fear for Dean threatening to drive him insane. If John wouldn't sit on his bed already he would have slumped backwards, his ass landing on the dirty rug.

There was another rustling and John heard the girl again in the background. She sounded worried, asking something like 'Oh God Sam, are you okay?' and 'What's going on?' while Sam didn't answer, not to her, not to him. John heard a click, like a door being closed and Sam taking a shaky breath.

"_What happened?"_ He sounded like a five year old. Fragile. Vulnerable. The kid was shaken to the core, that was pretty obvious.

"We were on a hunt." Please, not that trembling voice. Buckle up, John. "A ghost, nothing out of the ordinary. I got it, made the preparations, did the research myself while Dean was on a solo-hunt. When he returned we left the same night to hunt the bitch down."

He was interrupted by an angry snort. "You wanna say something, Sam?"

"_Yeah, sounds exactly like you. I get it that it never occurred to you that Dean might have been tired or exhausted?"_

John closed his eyes, trying to keep his composure. "Anyway", he growled, ignoring his youngest's remark, "the thing was haunting a construction site it was buried on, so after arriving there we went to work, I dug the body up, Dean kept watch. Everything went according to plan, I salted and burned the corpse, end of story."

He stopped and swallowed. Telling the story meant reliving it. And there was nothing in the world he dreaded more.

"While we gathered our stuff a second spirit showed up. I had no clue where it came from and who it was but suddenly it was there, chasing us, trying to kill us. We tried our best to dodge it but we knew there was no way to do anything against it as long as it wasn't clear who it was and where it was buried. So I told Dean to make a run for the car while I tried to get the last pieces of our stuff."

There was no way for John to hold the tears back now. "I heard an engine sound. I heard Dean scream. And I looked up just in time to watch your brother being hit by a front loader full force." He ran a trembling hand over his face, the sounds and images of the gruesome event clearly on his mind.

The roaring of the heavy equipment machine cutting through the night air. The sound of four giant heavy wheels squashing the gravel beneath them. The horrible scream tearing from his son's throat. The sight greeting John after jerking his head up.

The loader's bucket slamming into Dean, the sharp tooth bar burying itself deeply into his chest. Dean's desperate struggle to get free before finally dropping to the ground and disappearing underneath the moving vehicle.

A sob escaped John's lips and he swore. He wouldn't get rid of that scene in front of his inner eye ever again. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his eldest lying in the gravel, unmoving and bloody, still and lifeless.

There was no sound to be heard at the other end of the line. Only when the tiniest hitch of a breath reached the older Winchester's ear, he knew for sure that Sam was still there.

"_God…"_ came his son's strangled voice, accompanied by a choking noise.

John listened to the sounds of despair coming from his youngest. When was the last time he had heard them from Sam? Had he ever heard them at all from one of his boys? Probably not. He had been quite successful in raising them to be soldiers. Machines. Emotions could kill. Distractions could kill.

"_Did the…how...how did you and Dean get away?"_ Sam asked, and John could hear him fighting for an even voice.

John cleared his throat. "I distracted the thing. Got up and ran around like a maniac, praying it wouldn't reverse and…well. It took the bait, followed me. I managed to lead it into a bare brickwork where it got stuck somehow." He paused, the small sense of triumph he had felt back then making a faint reappearance. "I grabbed your brother and carried him to the car. He was alive, thank God…"

Never would he forget the dead weight in his arms, his son's head lolling lifeless along his collarbone. Warm, sticky blood everywhere. Dean's blood. Seeping through a father's hands. Hands that should have protected.

John couldn't remember what exactly he had said to Dean on their frantic and arduous way back to the car, the possibility of the ghost striking again every second. But he remembered that he had been talking all the time. Soothing. Reassuring. His firstborn son's labored breathing the only answer he had gotten.

"_What about his injuries?"_ Sam spoke quiet, almost a whisper. John could imagine him sitting slumped on a chair or a sofa or the edge of a bed, elbows on his knees, head low in a posture of shock.

"I don't think you…"

"_If you're about to say that I shouldn't know and that it's better for me to let it go, you're on the wrong track, dad." _John flinched at the sudden sharpness in his youngest tone. _"I want to know how bad it really is."_

"Fine", the older Winchester spat. Screw Sam and his damn obsession with details. Why didn't he take a car and drive over here, talk to the doctors? Pay attention to their medical crap. Look into their faces saturated with pity and sorrow. Listen to their voices thick with compassion telling him that Dean would die.

"From what the doctors told me Dean sustained life-threatening injuries to his chest. The loader bucket got him good, like I said, impaled him with the tooth bar. Pretty much everything that lies protected inside the ribcage is damaged, ribs included. His heart, his lungs…" John paused, thinking of the doctor who had spoken to him about Dean's condition a few hours ago. He had the weird feeling that right now he sounded just like that doctor. Concerned, but far away. Not his kin. Someone entirely else who had to deal with the news.

Then why did it sting and hurt so much?

"Dean's also fighting a heavy infection", he continued, then snorted. A snort that was accompanied by another surge of misery, almost a sob, "Of course, I mean, we're talking about a mud crusted construction site vehicle tooth bar, right?" He squeezed his eyes shut, slight anger bubbling up in him at the fact that Dean never did things by halves.

"_For a father talking about his son's wounds you sound terrifyingly calm, you do notice that, right?"_

Stunned at Sam's bitter, accusing tone, John dropped the hand he had used to rub his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"_You heard me. Where are you, are you with him? Are you at the hospital?"_

The older man clenched his jaw. "No, I'm not", he hissed, "for your information, Sam, there are visiting hours. I was there from 9 am to 9 pm before they kicked me out, and don't think I…"

"_Wait a second…when did it happen?"_

"Did what happen?"

"_The accident. Dean getting hurt. When did it happen?"_

John let out a sigh and got up from the bed sluggishly. "Two nights ago", he answered dejectedly, knowing full well what was about to come.

There was a huff, followed by a loud bang. _"I don't believe that."_ Probably something had fallen to the floor. Or, more likely, Sam being John's son, his youngest had lashed out at something in rage. _"Why didn't you call me right away?"_

"Would it have made a scrap of difference?" John replied calmly, trying not to step onto the same level of fury as Sam was right now, but feeling that he was on the verge of losing it as well. "You can't help him, son. And to be honest, actually I didn't want to call you at all. No need to upset you…"

"_I'm not hunting here, dad. You can take the whole 'emotions can kill you' package and shove it somewhere else, because here it works different."_

"Mind your tone with me, boy…"

"_No. In this life people get sick and they have accidents and they always have someone who cares for them, it got nothing to do with keeping emotions in check or showing weakness…"_

"Well, you made clear you don't want us in this life, so suck it up and quit whining about me shutting you out and keeping you in the dark about whatever happens to Dean or me, because it was your damn fucking decision, Sam."

Damnit. That had been loud. And indignant. John wouldn't be surprised if the motel manager would knock on his door the next few minutes.

He ran a hand through his already tousled hair, trembling with rage. He hadn't wanted to bring this up. He had told himself over and over again that if he would talk to Sammy, they wouldn't fight over this.

It had been a low blow, that last reproach. John knew that. And from the silence at the other end of the line Sam knew it, too. Was now probably hating him more then before. Because if Sam would have had the choice, he would have taken Dean with him. He'd never left his older brother behind. It had never been Dean he had tried to run away from.

It had always been him.

"_You know what"_, Sam's voice sounded again, very pissed but at the same time very determined, "_screw you. Where's Dean? Which hospital? State? City?"_

"Why do you wanna know?" And wasn't that a dumb question?

"_I take the next plane or bus or whatever because I want to see my brother, that's why. I want to keep him company until he's up on his feet again."_

"Sam..."

"_Or at least I'll be there when he dies. Hold his hand, talk to him while his father rots in some motel room, fingering his beard."_

John swallowed. He could almost feel the coldness of Sam's voice wafting through his phone. Looked as if he had screwed up again. "We're in Michigan. Towns's called Alpena."

"_Okay. I'm on my way. Do me a favor and keep your cell phone switched on so I can call you."_

John nodded, forgetting that Sam couldn't see that gesture. His attention drifted to the window where he could see snowflakes dancing wildly through the dark night. Would it be wise to warn Sam of the bad weather? To tell him that he might run into trouble getting a plane to Michigan with the snowstorm outside? Probably not. Sam's mind was set. Any word from John right now was most likely to set off another avalanche of wrath and defiance and the accusation that he was trying to keep Sam away from Dean.

No, thanks. The kid was old enough.

"_And call me if there are any changes in Dean's condition? Right. Away. You hear me?"_

"Have a good trip, Sam. Be careful." With that John shut his cell phone. He looked at it. Wanted to hurl it against the wall. But that wasn't a very wise thing to do, right? There was a very pissed off son on his way from California to Michigan who was likely going to kill him straight away if he wouldn't answer the phone anymore. And there was another son lying at the ICU, fighting for his life, an armada of doctors not being able to tell him that his firstborn son had lost this fight.

John walked up to the small nightstand as if caught in a daze. He put his phone onto it, gently, almost lovingly. It was a lifeline, that little thing. A lifeline to his sons. The one he might be about to lose. And the one he had already lost.

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's notes:** Wow. You guys are awesome, you know that? Thank you so much for all your sweet reviews! And I'm really happy to have a few people from our last journey back with me here. At this point I apologize I my not reply to every review because...well, thats the downside of posting daily, it's just a huuuuge amount of reviews... But I won't complain because I have the best readers with me, leaving review after review and that's what's boosting me. I'm trying to answer to you all!_

_Okay, this is a short one. Enjoy!_**  
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><p><strong>Chapter 03<strong>

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><p>Dial tones.<p>

Funny how those small, practically insignificant sounds were able to manipulate the mood. When it was a nice phone call, the anticipation would rise with every single tone. When it was an unpleasant one, the pit in one's stomach would grow larger and larger until the person on the other line picked up.

_Beep._

Right now, the amount of dial tones he currently had to listen to, was far too much. Seriously, how long did it take to fish a cell phone from a jacket and answer it?

"Damn it, dad. Which part of 'be on call, always and every time' didn't you get?"

_Beep._

If it would have been up to him he'd be sitting in a plane already. Would have packed a few things together right after his dad had hung up and would have left. It had been Jess who had kept him from calling a taxi in the middle of the night, it had been her begging him to take it easy, to slow it down for a sec.

_Beep._

Not because she didn't understand the urgency of this journey. Oh no, Sam had seen her face after he had returned to their bedroom. She had been really worried, almost shocked due to his obviously rattled appearance. And after he had told her that his brother had had an accident and might die she had been as close to tears as he had been.

_Beep._

She had been worried for him, worried he might do something in a blind rush. So he had stayed. Had paced their small apartment. Had checked the flight schedules online. Because there had been no way he would have been able to fall asleep again.

_Beep._

He had used Google to check on 'chest trauma'. Had watched videos, read pages after pages informing him about diagnoses and progressions, about chances and possible outcomes. He had read until he just couldn't see anything anymore through the veil of tears and the quiet sobs wrecking his body.

_Beep._

Damnit, Dean. Why does it always have to be you. Always at the frontlines. I wished you would have come with me. You'd like it here. You'd like Jess. Even the university would have appealed with you. But no. You stayed with dad. And now I'm not sure if I'm going to see you ever again.

_Beep._

The taxi driver was already looking funny at him, a set of nasty pale blue eyes in the rear-view mirror. Sam couldn't blame him. He was probably a weird sight, a cell phone literally glued to his ear while he wasn't saying anything. But then, none of the guy's business.

_Beep._

So dad's phone was on but obviously not with him. It was 7 in the morning, so he wasn't at the hospital because visiting hours were from 9 am to 9 pm, as daddy dearest had told him yesterday. He wasn't asleep because the first ring would have woken him immediately.

_Beep._

Which meant dad was either pissed at him and just didn't answer his call. Which was an option Sam just didn't dare to think about because the mere thought of his father snubbing him caused Sam's blood to boil. Or John had left his phone somewhere. In the car. In the motel room, while he was getting breakfast. A scenario that was as inexcusable, because what if there was something wrong with Dean?

_Beep._

Sam was sure he was going to explode at some point. He felt like the rope in a tug war of emotions. There was his anger and rage at his dad – for what had happened to Dean, for the way dad dealt with the situation, for everything that lay between them, to this day. How dare dad accuse him of not wanting them in his life? That son of a bitch.

_Beep._

On the other side there was his concern, his fear for Dean's life, the guilt of leaving his brother behind, knowing full well that the phone call he had gotten last night was exactly the call he had dreaded during the last 18 months. How was he supposed to go on if Dean really died? Would he go back to Stanford and just resume his studies? Just like that?

_Beep._

Looking out of the window, Sam noticed they were almost there. He would try to reach his dad later again, when he had his ticket and knew at what time he would arrive in Michigan. John better had a good excuse for this.

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><p><em>To be continued…<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's notes:** Nothing important to say today. Except the question if anyone else is thinking about Jensen hunched over papers and scripts and plans up in Vancouver right now, sorting out his dircetor's stuff? Geez, I'm so excited!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 04<strong>

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><p>"<em>What the hell, dad! Where have you been? Why didn't you pick up your phone?"<em>

John couldn't help but roll his eyes. His youngest was such a girl some times. "Relax, Sam, I had left it in the car." God, had that weary, grumbling tone been his voice?

"_What if the hospital would have tried to reach you, huh?"_

Please Sam. Not again. "They could have just said 'Hi' because I was there the whole time."

"_At the hospital? It's…8.45 in the morning. What about the visiting hours?" _Sam sounded surprised. This could pass as a small triumph, right?

"Well, guess where you got that stubborn streak from." He smiled a feeble smile, the first one in hours. The last pained smiles had been directed at the hospital staff. "I couldn't sleep so I went back there after our…conversation. Took me a few arguments with a few nurses and doctors but they allowed me to stay. At least for as long Dean's condition is…" John swallowed. "…as critical as it is right now."

It just didn't get better. He was still struggling with a denying mind and a rebellious acceptance. His brain refusing to contemplate what had happened. Every fiber of his body refusing to accept that he might lose Dean.

There was a pause before he heard Sam again, all the temper seeming to have left his youngest, Sam's voice sounding like John currently felt. _"So there are no changes? No improvements?"_

John clenched his jaw. Wouldn't he have told Sam right away? Wouldn't he have said something about Dean having woken up or being better right at the beginning of this call if it were the case? "No deterioration, either", he rasped, "that's good enough for me at the moment."

"_Did the doctors say anything? Any prognosis?"_

The older Winchester paused before he replied softly, "I told you what they told me, Sam. They don't have the same faith in Dean as we have. But then, they don't know your brother, right?" He tried to sound convincing, maybe even a bit cheerful. Who was he encouraging here again?

"_You mean the Winchester with the most stubborn streak from all of us…"_ It was said with so much love but at the same time held so much pain that John felt his eyes water. _"Are you with him?"_

"No…" And John swallowed again to get rid of the fucking lump in his throat, "No…I…uh…had to leave due to the medical round. Took the time to get my phone and saw that you've tried to call me. I'm not allowed to use the cell in there, so if you won't reach me next time, just don't freak out, okay?"

"_Whatever. You ever wondered about those tiny letters on your keypad? It's for text messages."_ Was there a slight whiff of humor in Sam's tone?

Was that a peace offering?

"You know what, shut up. I think I'll have a word with your father, ask him how he managed to spoil you so bad." The soft humorous snort at the other end of the line was music in John's ears.

So they were still good. Probably not for long, but right now he took what he was able to grab. "Where are you? What's that noise?"

"_I'm at the airport. I got one of the last seats on the next plane to Detroit. From there I'm going to catch a connecting flight to Alpena."_

The older Winchester slowed his pacing and ducked his head, looking outside through the giant windows of the hospital lobby. "So there are flights?"

"_What do you mean, 'so there are flights'. Of course there are. Why not?"_

"Well, there's a pretty heavy snowstorm raging outside. It started snowing last night and hasn't stopped yet. I'm actually surprised the airports are open."

"_They didn't say anything, so I guess it's alright." _

"Yeah, I guess." John squinted against the brightness outside. Was it possible that the snow was brighter then everything in this fortress of sterility? And was it possible that he sounded as if he was about to stop Sam from coming up here to this godforsaken town?

He wanted to see Sam. He needed to see Sam. Not only because the last time they had looked into each others eyes those had been filled with disappointment, betrayal and anger. Not only because there had been an icy lack of communication between them for one and a half years.

It was also because John had to admit that he wasn't as hard and cold as he wished to be. Not the badass hunter who hid emotions and feelings and fears somewhere deep down to avoid being harassed and slowed down by them.

He was a wreck. He was at the verge of losing it. He needed someone who might be able to catch him when...

"_Dad..."_

John blinked. "Yeah?"

"_I was wondering...what about that ghost?"_

Oh yeah. Speaking of. He had almost forgotten about that son of a bitch. "It's still out there."

"_Okay."_ A pause. _"Are you going to do something about that?"_

Pinching the bridge of his nose John bit bottom lip. Oh yes, he was going to do something about it. Actually he had prepared every weapon in his trunk for the battle, he was more than eager to drive out there and rip the thing to tiny, colorful shreds.

"I did some research. I know what it is. Or rather, who it is. And I know where to dig." John sighed. "But I...the body's buried a few towns over on a cemetery. I just..." He paused again. Gathered strength for the next sentence. "I don't want to leave. The motel's right beside the hospital, I can be here in minutes but...I don't want to be miles away in some piss poor village on some fucking cemetery in case something's going downhill with your brother. I...I would never forgive myself if Dean were alone."

If Dean died alone. How come he couldn't use the word? How come it was so damn hard to use the word 'die' and his son's name in one sentence?

Sam didn't answer right away and John was glad for it. It gave him the moment to regain his composure.

"_I'm actually quite happy to hear that, dad."_

Huh. Where did that come from? "That so?" John frowned. "Why?"

He heard Sam take a shaky breath. _"Because for once in your life you chose your son over the damn job."_

Slumping his shoulders, John sank down onto the neat sofa of the waiting area, still staring out of the window. Those last words from Sam had hit home.

"_I need to hang up, dad, it's time for boarding. I'm going to call you as soon as I'm in Alpena, alright? If something changes, please call me or send a message or a smoke signal, something, I'm begging you here, okay?"_

When did that happen? When had he morphed from a loving father to a heartless, ignorant drill sergeant?

"_Dad?"_

John flinched. "Yeah...yeah, I'll do that", he answered absentmindedly.

"_Okay. Would you...can you tell Dean that I'm on my way?"_

"Sam. He's..."

"_I know, I know, but still...humor me. You know what they say about comatose people, right?"_

"Yes." And John prayed every fucking day for those rumors and studies to be true. Every time he sat there on that crappy pale blue plastic chair, watching his son's chest rise and fall in unison with the _whoosh_ from the machines surrounding him, talking to him, trying to guide him back from wherever he was. How often had he asked Dean to wake up. How often had he started a cheerful conversation, although one sided, only to abandon the idea because of his voice choking up. How often had he fought the urge to shake his gravelly injured son awake, desperation and fear overwhelming him oh so often, threatening to kick his sanity over the edge.

"_Well then...let him know that I'm on my way. And that he mustn't do anything stupid." _It was supposed to sound playful, John was sure. Only that Sam didn't manage to keep his voice even and joyful. Who could blame him?

"I tell him. Don't worry too much, okay, Sam?" What a lame advice. He was such a hypocrite.

"_I'm trying not to. You neither, okay? See you, dad."_

Looking forward to it, Sammy. I really do. "See you, kiddo."

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's notes:** It's 23.54. I guess when I'm finished with this author's bla bla it's midnight, therefore it's okay to post the new chapter, right? _

_One giant cuddly hug goes out to **DeansBabyBird** for helping me out with a really funny mistake I made in the last chapter (I trusted my dictionary a bit too much and created new wonderful...er...meanings...**clears throat**). So, thanks honey! You saved my pride!_

_Oh, and one last thing...I'll be with my parents over the next days, so in case I won't answer to your reviews: don't panic, when I'm back on Sunday, I'll talk to you again ;-) Chapters will be posted normally each day._

_Look! It's 00:05. Here's chapter 5. Enjoy!  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 05<strong>

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><p>"<em>Hello?"<em>

It was a stunning sensation. The way the pastor's voice managed to wrap him into a cocoon of warmth when they talked to each other. No matter if it was over the phone or from eye to eye, it felt like a soothing balm over gaping, painful wounds every time.

John sometimes wondered if it was an ability Jim had adopted because of his position as a cleric or if the ability had been the reason to become one.

"Jim. It's me."

"_John."_ The single word, the mention of his name, it held so much. Relief. Worry. Appreciation. It felt like home. The one John could remember. The one he once had. _"I'm glad to hear your voice. I've been trying to reach you, where have you been?"_

"With my son." And he wished he'd still be with him right now. The way the doctors were frowning and murmuring...he didn't like their demeanors. What he had witnessed this morning, had read in their faces, it hadn't looked convincing.

"_How is he? Are there any changes in his condition?"_

John's gaze was still glued to the windows, the raging snow outside being unnerving and mesmerizing at the same time. "No. Steady. Critical, but steady. At least I haven't heard otherwise."

"_That is to be expected. Don't forget about the serious nature of Dean's injuries, John."_

"That fact doesn't make it easier, you know."

"_I know."_ The pastor paused, but somehow the silence wasn't awkward. Nothing was ever awkward with him. _"Have you considered to talk to Sam?"_

Been there. Done that. Got the shirt. "I already did. I called him this morning. Or, well...last night. I haven't been aware of the time."

"_I'm actually glad to hear that. And surprised."_

John pulled his head back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"_Well, I haven't thought you'd tell him at all. To hear that you did, it's quite surprising. And gratifying."_

Pondering whether this might have been an insult, John frowned and was about to reply in a rather vigorous way. He opened his mouth, but didn't say a word.

What was he about to do here? Give Jim a slap on the wrist for stating the obvious? Didn't he remember the first hours after the incident? Hadn't he told Sam during their last phone call that he hadn't intended to call him at all, to say a word about Dean?

It hurt like a mother to realize what an ass he was. It hurt even more when someone else knew it, too.

"I didn't want to tell Sam, at first. I didn't want to unsettle him...he's...well, he's going to be a kick-ass lawyer, right?" John snorted and ran a hand over his face. Geez, that still sounded crazy. Sam Winchester, the lawyer. "He has exams to do and a new life to live...I mean, he turned over a new leaf, started a new chapter which obviously excluded Dean and me, so why bother him?"

"_Please excuse my way of expressing, but that's crap, John."_

What the…? "Come again?"

"_Don't you think it's time to stop wallowing in self-pity? You're still angry at Sam for leaving. I get that, it's your right to be. But don't act like a defiant little boy, because the issue of him leaving is not the only morsel you're currently chewing on and it's definitely not the sole reason you're avoiding him."_

John swallowed. Torn between yelling at his friend or leaning against his shoulder and sob, he clenched his jaw. Damnit, Jim knew him well. "Well, if you're so sure about my reasons, I don't have to explain them to you, right?" The defiant boy again. Duh!

"_I know you're afraid. Afraid to talk to him because of all the things that had happened between the two of you, the things still lying between Sam and you like some debris after a nuclear war. And you're afraid Sam might blame you for what happened to Dean."_

Pastor Jim's voice was soft and understanding. Still his words had the same impact as if he would have had yelled them through the mouthpiece. Rubbing his forehead, John glanced around, as if searching for the exit, any exit, from this conversation, from this truth, from this life.

He could hang up. But it wouldn't solve anything. God, why did the truth hurt so much?

"And he would be right", he answered, fighting to keep the tremors from his voice, "Sam would be right, because I am to blame. It's my fault the boys had to grow up in this...this...crappy setting...fighting things normal people laugh about sitting in a movie theater, munching popcorn...a father shouldn't be forced to treat his sons' wounds so often, a father shouldn't be forced to carry his bleeding, choking firstborn through the night, shouldn't press too dirty hands on a torn ribcage. So, I say I give Sam great credit for still speaking to me at all."

From the corner of his eye he noticed a nurse walk past him who scrutinized him suspiciously. Probably his own voice was lacking it's soft and understanding quality and he had answered in his usual gruff and not so low-keyed way.

"_Don't do this, John. Don't do this to yourself. Stop blaming yourself. You might not get an award for 'Father of the year', I'm sorry, you won't. But you did what you thought would be the best way to protect your children."_

"You think?" John couldn't help but snort. "The way I see it, I did a piss-poor job. Because thanks to my fabulous protection my youngest ran away from me and my firstborn is dying."

There was a silence. John turned away from the wary looks of the hospital staff and walked over to the window, letting his head drop forward so it was resting against the cold surface. He closed his eyes, not bothering to wipe the tears away that emerged from his tired eyes. He was sick and tired of playing the emotionless asshole. He was done keeping a cool facade up which right now was just that – a facade. Cardboard. A backdrop for the drama that was his life.

"_What about your faith, John?"_

"You know what happened to my faith. It burned down a long time ago." Together with the plans he had with Mary. Together with the future he had wanted for Sam and Dean.

"_No. It didn't. Because if there wouldn't be any faith left, you would have given up already. Your life. Yourself. Your sons. You would have stopped fighting. And maybe you would have taken a gun to your head already."_

A tiny choking noise escaped John's throat.

The hard metal against his temple. The cold nozzle burying itself into tender skin. The familiar weight in his grip. The tremble of his hand transferring itself to the weapon that promised relief and salvation. The bottle of Jack in front of him blurring from tears.

He had been there. More often then he wanted to admit. But he had never finished it. Maybe it was faith. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it had been two softly snoring boys in the next room.

"_So how about you take that little residue of faith and use it. As a tool to fix the relationship between Sam and you. As a signpost for Dean to show him his way back. Let your children know that you love them. That you need them."_

It sounded so easy, the way his friend spoke. John almost believed he could do it. Walk up to Dean's room, take his child's lifeless hand into his and say all those things he wanted to say, all the things that were long overdue and Dean deserved to hear. To take the phone and call Sam, apologize for the things he had said and done, telling him that he was absolutely happy for his full ride and his chance to have the life John once had.

Tell both his sons that he was proud of them. That he loved them. That they were the reason he was still functioning.

In theory it was natural. It were the things a father said, right?

A father. Somehow he had forgotten how to be that.

"_John? You still there?"_

He cleared his throat. "Yeah." Lifting his head, which felt as if it weighed several tons, John regarded the weather outside. "You sound like a priest, you know that?"

It was a lame joke, even for him. But it was also one of the exits he had searched for earlier. It was small and narrow and he had to duck his head to squeeze himself through it. But he needed to fit through because right now he just couldn't take much more of this.

He could only hope Jim wouldn't slam the door shut in his face.

"_I do? Guess I'm too long in this business already."_

John smiled a feeble relieved smile.

Thank you, my friend.

Noticing fast approaching steps behind him, John glanced over his shoulder. His stomach turned to ice when he was met with a tense looking doctor Novell.

"Jim. I'm going to hang up."

"_Something wrong?"_

"Dean's physician. He's…I think he wants to talk to me." Nothing else. Just some info. Nothing else. It's nothing. Novell wears this expression all the time. And it's nothing out of the ordinary for a doctor to come down himself instead of sending a nurse to get John up to ICU. No need to panic, John.

"_Okay. You going to call me later again?"_

"Yes."

"_He'll make it, John. He's tough."_

John swallowed. He wanted to believe that. And if there indeed lay some faith buried inside him somewhere, right now might be a good time to show up and have his back.

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's notes:** **ducks head because this one is really short**_

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><p><strong>Chapter 06<strong>

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><p>"<em>This is John Winchester, I can't be reached..."<em>

_Beep._

"Hey dad, it's Sam. Guess you're at the hospital. Okay, so...shit has hit the fan, I guess...uh...I'm stuck. In Detroit. Yeah...every flight up to Alpena or any other city in that region has been cancelled thanks to the damn snowstorm. It's...4 pm now and I'm going to wait...that's what the airline told me and everyone else. To wait. There are going to be flights as soon as the weather calms down up there, so...damnit, I don't have time for this right now...okay, well...how's Dean? I hope he's okay...tell him I'm on my way, okay? Guess you did that already, right? I'm rambling...okay...dad, I have my cell switched on, you can call me whenever something's...uh...going on. Alright? I'll get in touch with you when I get a plane. Hope it won't take long. Okay. Bye, dad. Take care."

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's notes:** Hey. Do you guys still love me? Longer chapter this time, promise.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 07<strong>

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><p>"<em>Sam?"<em>

God, he loved the sound of her voice. It felt so awfully homely to hear her, even now that it was filled with concern and sadness.

"Hey, Jess..." Compared to her he sounded like a war-weary soldier. Unnerved. Tired. Embittered.

"_Where are you? Are there any news on your brother? Have you arrived at the hospital yet?"_

"No..." Sam let out a heavy sigh. "And I don't think I will reach it today either."

"_What? What happened?"_

Fidgeting with the zipper of his bag kept him from freaking out. "There's some blizzard raging in Alpena...nothing dramatic, but...well, it's enough to knock the airport out up there so I'm currently stuck in Detroit." Fucking snow storm. Fucking amateurs. Couldn't keep a simple airport working.

"_Oh no. For how long? Did they tell you anything?"_

"No...they don't know. It depends on the weather. They say it might be over tomorrow but it's still not sure how long it will take them to get the Alpena airport running again." And because the Winchester luck was always with them, he somehow knew that he might be sitting here for a few days. At least. While his brother was dying.

"_God, Sam, if you'd have let me go with you, you wouldn't have to be alone in this now. So...where are you going to...sleep? Eat? I mean, is there a motel. Something? "_

Sleep? He hadn't any intentions to sleep. Eat? There was coffee. It was the only thing he was able to get down at this point. And it helped with the sleep issue.

"The seating area is quite comfortable, don't worry. I have my laptop, I have internet and I have company because there are so many other stranded passengers hanging around here, I could even take a nap and feel safe. And there's a nice little coffee shop, so I think I have everything I need." Gallows humor was an awesome thing.

"_If that's supposed to be funny...it isn't. I'm not anywhere near laughing, okay? You haven't had breakfast this morning..."_

"The muffins they have there look delicious..."

"_Sam...!"_

"I know, Jess. I know, okay? It's just..." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm worried. I'm scared. And I'm pissed. And I have no time for this. And I want to get up and punch someone because I'm forced to sit here while a few hundred miles away my brother struggles to survive, maybe is already gone..."

He wanted to cry. To bawl like a baby. Because of Jess, and her constant worry for him, which felt incredibly good and soothing and made him want nothing more then to run back home to her and weep in her arms. Because of her concerns for Dean, whom she hadn't ever met and didn't know at all. And because of the damn weather and the damn planes and the damn unfamiliar, cold atmosphere surrounding him.

Sam couldn't remember a time he had ever felt homesick. But right now, without knowing how it actually felt, he knew that it had him in his tight, brutal grip.

"_Don't say that, Sam..."_

"I don't want to, but I...I have to face the facts, Jess." He wiped a tear from his cheek and looked up, feeling a set of eyes on him. On a seat in the opposite row, an old lady watched him with sympathy. When Sam met her eyes, she smiled a compassionate smile. It was outlandish but warming at the same time.

"_Did you speak to your father? What did he say?"_

Sam returned the lady's smile politely, but stood up and walked over to the giant windows. He didn't need an audience. "I spoke to him before I left LA. I tried to call him half an hour ago, but only reached his mailbox."

"_Might be a good sign. He's probably with Dean. Cell phones are not allowed in hospitals."_

It would be so easy to believe her. It was the thought Sam was clinging to. That everything was okay so far. No changes. No deterioration. Dad sitting at Dean's bedside, telling him that everything would be alright again, that Sam was on his way and that he mustn't do anything stupid.

In the Winchester world no news meant good news, right?

"_Sam?"_

"Yeah?"

He thought about leaning his head against the window, but decided that he was freezing already. Putting his forehead against an ice cold pane wouldn't do him much good. The world outside looked like a busted television. Colors, shapes, movements – everything mixed together to a chaotic sludge of gray and white, the only regularity the blinking lights of the taxiway.

"_I don't know if this is the right time...and you have to tell me when you don't want to talk about it but...you never told me much about your brother. I...I don't know, I always thought you two...well, don't like each other or something. So it was okay for me, Sam has an older brother, his name's Dean, there's a father who never called you and who you never called, and that's about it. But...the way you reacted...when you heard about Dean's accident...whatever it was, because you still haven't told me...anyway. You are close, am I right? Closer than you've let on."_

Sam closed his eyes. Please, not that road. He didn't want to go down that road. Not now. Not ever.

"Look, Jess..."

"_It's okay, Sam. It's okay, really, you don't need to...you have your reasons, I accept that. I just...maybe when this is all over, when Dean's fine again? Maybe we can sit together with a glass of wine and you tell me about the relationship you two have?"_

And out of nowhere Sam had to snort at the verbalization. Maybe it was desperation causing his brain to fail. His heart yearning for something funny. "What, are you jealous?"

"_No, good God."_ Jess' exclaim was accompanied by a small laughter, one that lit up the tense mood immediately. However, the light faded as fast as it had come. _"I just...I just want to understand why you are so close...and still never call each other. Write mails or letters. Why I haven't met Dean. Why you never talk about him. Or about your father."_

Sam swallowed. He knew the family issue was a nagging thing to Jess.

She had a great relationship to her parents, to her siblings, to her family, the whole package with Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas reunions. They talked to each other over the phone weekly and she visited at least one member almost every month.

She had understood and accepted the situation between Sam and his father. She didn't know the whole truth, why dad had reacted the way he had. But she knew enough not to bring Sam's silence between him and his father into question. To her, John was a dick. And because Sam had no contact to his brother, didn't bring him up ever, it seemed to Jess as if there had been something between Dean and him, too. Talking about kin liability.

And there was the crux of the matter. There was no actual reason for the lack of communication between Dean and him. No need for kin liability at all.

Dean had never done something wrong. If anything, he had been his greatest proponent when it came to the whole Stanford issue. Sam didn't want to know how often Dean and his dad had fought, long after he had already left.

It had been him shutting his big brother out. Dean had tried to keep in touch. Had sent text messages, had left him voicemails. He had even sent a letter, once, some time around christmas – greetings in Dean's usual messy writing on a tiny sheet of paper, the logo of some cheap motel printed on it.

Dean had tried. Until he had given up at some point. And Sam couldn't blame him.

No wonder he had trouble to answer Jess' question about the 'why'. He didn't knew the answer himself.

"_Sam?"_

"I'm still here..." He watched a plane approach. It would be one of the last ones landing in Detroit tonight. Departures were all cancelled, arrivals were limited due to the bad weather.

"_Sam, if I overstepped a line, I'm sorry, I..."_

"No...no. It's alright, Jess, really. Don't worry, okay? I just..." I think you just pushed me awake. Kicked my ass and showed me what kind of dick I really am. "...I just have to think about...some things, you know?"

"_Okay." _

It was said so soft and quiet, Sam almost didn't hear it. Which was no wonder, his brain was muddled, his thoughts whirling around.

"Please. You sound sad. Don't be sad, okay?" Right now he had no strength left to cheer Jess up. Right now he couldn't take care of her.

"_I've upset you..."_

"No! No, you didn't. You know what? I'm tired. I think I'm going to check if there's a motel or something near the airport. What do you think?"

"_That would be great. I'd sleep better. I'm really really worried, you know that? Not only about your brother."_

"I know, Jess. And I thank you. I love you."

"_Love you, too."_

God, this hurt. The world was so unfair.

"I'll call you tomorrow. Bye."

"_Bye."_

Outside, the driving snow had been veiled by the fast approaching night. Unconsciously sliding his cell phone shut, Sam stared outside the window, but the only thing he saw was himself, the haggard, tired reflection looking back at him. Accusing him. For lying to his girlfriend. Of course he wouldn't leave the airport. Wouldn't have a proper meal tonight. He'd stay and drink coffee. Eat some muffins. He wanted to be the first passenger on the first plane to Alpena. Because he didn't know what he would do if he'd overslept the airport opening. Would arrive at the hospital too late. Would only manage to meet a cold, lifeless corpse that once had been his brother.

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's notes:** _**giggles**_  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 08<strong>

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><p>"<em>This is John Winchester, I can't be reached..."<em>

_Beep._

If the small device in his hand weren't his only connection to the world beyond this airport building, Sam would have hurled the thing through the hall with as much force as he could muster. He decided to vent his anger by pushing out a low ferocious growl, ignoring the appalled looks he earned from the people slumped in their seats around him.

"Dad. Where the hell are you? I hope you're with Dean, it's the only excuse I'd accept. Seriously. Call me when you get this, okay? Alright, so...nothing new concerning the weather, there are no flights until tomorrow. It's almost...11 pm...I'm gonna try to get some sleep now...wouldn't be much help if I'd arrive at the hospital without being able to keep my eyes open. But that doesn't mean you're not allowed to call me, alright? Call. Me. As soon as you get this."

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's notes:** Okay my dear friends, you earned this chapter. I'm happy I'm able to post this today, because it's probably my favourite chapter and I'm really excited what you think._

_Enjoy!  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 09<strong>

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><p>It took Sam a moment to realize that the obtrusive sound poking his restless slumber wasn't part of a weird dream. However, as muffled and tiny it was, it was also everything Sam needed to get catapulted to alertness in an instant.<p>

Almost dropping the vibrating device, Sam hastily maneuvered the cell phone to his ear.

"Dad!"

Silence. No greeting. No nothing.

"Dad?" Could he have called him accidently? Forgotten about the keylock? Or was dad playing tricks with him? Trying to be funny? Which probably meant he was as pissed as a newt...

There. A hitching breath.

Sam's heart sank. What the...?

"Dad? You there? Answer me!"

Still no answer. And slowly but surely he felt something between rage and desperation boil up in him. If he wouldn't get an answer he swore he'd yell into the phone and he wouldn't give a rat's ass if his dad would drop from a bar stool or get a heart attack. He wasn't in the mood for...

"_Sammy..."_

The budding fire was smothered instantly.

From a very young age Sam had learned to categorize his father's tone. It always displayed the mood his dad was in. Cheery, melancholy, impatient, pissed, royally pissed. The margin was enormous.

What reached his ear in this very moment belonged to a category Sam wasn't sure if it even existed.

Dad's tone was low, tired, gravelly. There was almost no strength in there. In combination with the term of endearment his father had stopped to use quite a long time ago it was absolutely frightening and unnerving.

Sam felt like being sucker punched.

Don't panic. This could mean anything. Dad's drunk because he's been through a lot, cut him some slack. He's tired. And he's worried. Don't panic. The man needs a drink from time to time. Has to vent somehow. It doesn't mean anything.

Don't. Panic.

"Yeah. I'm here." Damn, he sounded like a child right now. Man up, Sam. Your father needs you strong.

If it weren't for this pit in his stomach.

There was a silence once again. Then, a long, weary breath, dragged in through lungs that had been exposed to the smoky air of a dirty bar for too long.

Definitely drunk.

Oh God no.

Dean.

"_You know…I've never been the touchy type. Fondling, stroking your hair, cuddling…I rarely did that. Mary did, though. All the time. And when one of you were sick, she hardly left your side."_

Sam looked around frantically, tried to make out a corner far away from anyone through his blurring vision. He didn't need a seat, didn't need a bench. Just some room for himself and his sudden sickness where he could sink down to the floor.

That wasn't his dad. No way in hell belonged that voice his dad. It couldn't be. Just couldn't. Sam wanted the voice to cease, to shut up, to stop right now and never speak on. Because it was about to tell him something he didn't want to hear. But at the same time it would reveal something about a mother he had never really had the chance to get to know and a father who had been a different person back then.

"_I was more …the efficient guy in charge whenever Dean or you were running a fever. I came, put my raw ginormous hands onto your little foreheads and announced if there was a temperature or not, made wise suggestions what to do…all that practical stuff. I think it was __because I thought that someone had to stay calm and…I don't know…take up the reins. Your mom giving you all the love by holding you and…caressing you boys…and me searching for a way to make you better…by making soup because it was the only thing I was able to cook. Or by calling the doctor or driving to the pharmacy…"_

Feeling his back impacting softly with a wall, Sam leaned against it. His grip on the cell phone was vise-like, his free hand was pressed against his temple.

"_After your mom died…I still couldn't adopt her marvelous way with you two…this devotion only a mother can have towards her children…it can't be learned, it's simply there. Me, I…I kept this…sickness management going…but I sucked with it. If anything, I made it worse because I got angry every time one of you went out of commission. I don't know why…maybe because I was helpless. Maybe because I was scared that something might happen to one of you. That I might lose you and have to watch because I'm not able to do anything._

"_I was lucky, you know. I had Dean. Whenever something was wrong with you, I had Dean to take over your mom's position. He even took over a part of mine, told me to do this or that while I was too occupied with cursing and pitying myself for not being able to take care of a baby."_

The monologue broke off. It was once again replaced by silence. A silence Sam welcomed this time. Because he wasn't sure if he could take much more.

"Dad…why are you...why are you telling me this?" Now it was his breath hitching. His voice being gravelly and barely audible. He didn't want to ask. And for the love of God, he didn't want an answer.

Hang up. Hang up.

"Tell me..."

Please. Hang. Up.

"Tell me what's wrong..."

Sam didn't know how long he waited for his father's reply. Probably a few seconds. Maybe half a minute. It could have been just as well two hours. He was trapped in some kind of cocoon. Time stood still.

Until his cocoon was squashed in the most vicious way.

"_They told me to call a priest, Sammy. They told me that Dean won't make it…he might not survive the night…"_

He didn't feel it when his legs betrayed him. How they gave way like fragile blades of grass under the heavy, careless step that was fate. Always there to kick his ass. Always right on time when it came to his loved ones.

Sam slid down the wall, not bothering, not able to break his fall. His surroundings faded. People turned to shapes and blurs.

"_Learning that my son is dying is the trigger for me to go to him and touch him. The things I never did, never could…for 25 years…it takes a fucking white coat to tell me that I'm losing my child before I finally drag myself to Dean's bedside and touch him. Like a father would. __Run my fingers through his hair. Take his hand in mine. Tell me Sam…what kind of father am I? What kind of…pathetic unloving scum am I?"_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His father's grief pelting down on him, his own hurricane of sorrow and anguish – it threatened to rip him apart. This was a dream. A nightmare. Someone else's drama. His father didn't talk like this. And his brother was immortal. Nothing could bring them down, nothing. They were like rocks in a surf. Both. Stubborn jerks. Right?

Through the roaring in his ears Sam picked up the sounds that shattered everything he was trying to persuade himself. Feeble, choked up sobs. His dad was crying. Still tried to hide it, still suppressed it. He could have just as well wailed and scream – it made no difference. It tore Sam apart no matter how quiet or loud his dad suffered.

It said you'd watch your life pass by when you die. He hadn't known that it passed others, too. Images of his brother popped up in Sam's mind, snapshots, small scenes. Moments that had been precious enough to be etched into his memory.

Dean's voice close to his ear while Sam sat on a too large bicycle, attempting to drive on his own for the first time. His brother's surprised but proud raise of eyebrows at Sam's first bull's-eye after countless months of weapon training. His heated glare whenever they were arguing. Dean's lips forming an encouraging smile while his eyes were crying the last time they had seen each other.

No.

No way.

He wouldn't accept that.

Wiping his eyes angrily, he cleared his throat and tried to get a grip. Dean wasn't dead yet. He didn't care what some doctor said, as long as his brother was breathing, as long as there was any chance, no matter how tiny it was, he wouldn't accept such a prophecy.

"Stop it", he half-growled, half-sobbed, "stop pretending as if Dean's already gone. Since when do you believe in doctors words anyway, huh? How often did they say something like this about Dean, about me, after a hunt gone south? Look at us, dad! We're still here!"

Even after all the blood we've lost, the injuries we've received, the almost-deaths, all thanks to your crusade, thanks to the life you lead us into. Maybe this is the wake-up call you needed.

"_I believe the doctors since I saw him, Sam."_

It was an answer Sam didn't want to hear and didn't want to think about. "That's to be expected, I mean he's..."

"_You haven't seen him…you weren't there…back there on that construction site. I still don't know how I got him to a hospital in time. And I still don't know how he survived the last days. But what I know is...what I know is how my boy looks. And...the person in that goddamn hospital bed..."_

He broke off and Sam clenched his jaw. Don't say it. Don't you dare say it.

"_...it's not your brother anymore, Sam. It's a shell. There's nothing left."_

The youngest Winchester fought to keep his temper in check. If he could he would reach through his cell and throttle this damn coward. But rage and fury wouldn't help now. Not them. Not Dean.

"How can you say that? Where is your faith, dad?"

He wasn't prepared for the snort that reached his ear.

"_Funny, everybody wants to know that lately…"_

Sam frowned, but decided to ignore the remark. "Then it shouldn't be a problem to pull it out from all the stuff it's buried under, don't you think?"

Sam's chin was trembling. Because of rage, because of sorrow, he didn't know. His father didn't answer, but at least there were no sounds indicating that he was still in tears. Again Sam wondered if he had ever witnessed his dad crying. Back then after his mom's death he had been too young. And ever since Sam could remember dad had always been the hard, determined man. Dean probably remembered. Had certainly caught their dad more than once. Had kept him from tumbling over the edge countless times on his way to become the hunter and man he now was.

Seemed as if it was Sam's turn now. Catch their dad and keep him sane.

"Dad? You still there?"

No answer. Damn the stubborn guy and his silence thing.

"Dad!"

"_I'm going to call Jim…"_

Sam's mouth shut with an audible click before he exploded. "No, you won't...damnit, it's a waste of time because Dean will get better, you hear, he will and all I want, all I fucking demand from you is to have some confidence in him…"

"_SAM!"_ The sudden strength and volume of his father's voice stopped him immediately. And even though Sam's heart screamed at him to fight, to keep dad from dropping his brother so fast because calling Pastor Jim meant believing the doctors and giving up on Dean and the hell was he going to play along, even though he wanted to raise protest with all his might, Sam waited and listened.

When he heard his father's voice again it had morphed back to a calm, quiet tone once more.

"_I'm going to call Pastor Jim and tell him what the doctors said. That's all. I'll call him as a friend, not as a priest. Okay? Satisfied?"_

Swallowing, Sam closed his eyes. He was about to say 'Thank you'. Was about to tell his father to snap out of it. That everything would be fine. That Dean would be fine. That as soon as he would arrive at the hospital they were going to talk him awake, that dad and him would fight or sing or tell him bad jokes until Dean would open his eyes to tell them to shut the hell up.

"Okay." It was all he managed at the moment.

"_Go to sleep now."_

Sam almost huffed out a laugh, but bit his tongue. What sounded like an order was much more then that. It meant dad was worried about him. And that he wasn't drunk enough to say 'I love you, son'. But it meant almost the same.

"You, too."

Another pause. Another noise sounding suspiciously like a stifled sob.

"_Don't know if I can."_

It was enough to cause Sam's vision to blur once again. He hadn't been prepared for such a honest answer.

"What makes you think _I_ can?" Sam asked softly, clenching his jaw to keep it from trembling. Again.

"_Never mind. Goodnight."_

Sam had no time to reply. The next thing he heard was the annoying _beep_ indicating that the call has been disconnected. Keeping the cell close to his ear, he pressed the heel of his free hand into his eye.

"Goodnight, dad."

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><p><em>To be continued…<em>


	10. Chapter 10

_**Authors notes:** You guys are amazing, you know that! Thank you sooo much for your support and all your kind words, it feels so good! I'm glad you're enjoying the story – well, I don't know if 'enjoying' is the right word for this sad piece of work..._

_Okay then. On with it.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

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><p>He kept his cell phone pressed against his forehead, for how long he didn't know. With his eyes closed he managed to concentrate on the warmth radiating from it, the moist, sticky surface caused by his sweaty hands being oddly soothing.<p>

He had hoped a few drinks would be enough to drown his grief. To wake him from this nightmare. To undo what had happened. To stop the world from turning.

Oh God, he wished so bad for the last days to be erased. He wanted to open his eyes and stare at the Saturday evening news on TV. He yearned for the motel door to open, for Dean to stroll in, bitching about that solo hunt and the freaking Poltergeist playing tricks on him.

John wouldn't tell him to keep his jacket on. Would keep the 'I know where Cramer's buried, let's go and finish him off tonight.' to himself. Instead, he would grab two beers from the fridge, would send Dean into the bathroom to get a hot shower and offer to watch TV together. A movie. Or a baseball game. Or the freaking Simpsons.

Fighting the urge to turn and look at the motel room door, John blinked and raised his head, moving the phone he was still clutching to his chin. His eyes fell on Dean's bed, untouched for days. A white plastic bag lay on top of it. John had dropped it there after he had come home from the hospital the first night. Alone. His clothes bloody. His arms still numb from carrying his son's dead weight.

He knew what the bag contained and he had considered to throw it away. When a nurse had given it to him, wearing that expression, he had almost clobbered her with it. What was he supposed to do with that stuff? What had been left of Dean's shirt and jacket had been cut to shreds by the doctors. What did they want, did they think it was easy for him to pull his son's belongings from a plastic bag? Clothes Dean liked and always enjoyed to wear, now destroyed, every good memory there might have been attached to them now washed away with his lifeblood?

Of course John had kept the bag. But he had only once brought himself to open it.

It had taken him too much time to find what he had been looking for. Long agonizing moments of rummaging around in the bag, feeling and seeing the clothes he had seen on Dean that day, had watched being put on by his son in the morning before Dean had announced to get breakfast. They had been clean and fresh back then.

So when John had finally found his son's phone, everything he could do was drop the bag and sink to the floor, tears making him blind.

Dean's cell had been intact. Dirty, bloody, scratched, the battery was low, but it had been intact. Finding Sam's number hadn't been hard although Dean hadn't saved it under Sam's name. But as it was the only number with a Californian dialing code, John had written it down.

Turned out it had been the correct number, right?

Sluggishly, John got up from the bed and staggered over to the small table. The bottle of Whiskey he had put there earlier was already empty. Should he go and get a new one? Was it worth the trouble? He didn't feel any better. His grief was still loud and painful. The nightmare had him still in his grip. What's done cannot be undone. And the world would never stop turning. No matter how much he was about to drink or how hard the stuff would be.

John swayed and took the empty bottle before he clumsily stumbled back to the bed, this time sinking down onto the floor in front of it and leaning against it's edge. He was not drunk enough to just keel over. Not drunk enough to forget. Even if it would be for a few hours.

He noticed that he still held his phone in his one hand, while the other gripped the empty bottle, tight, not ready to abandon it yet. Raising the small device, he scrolled through his contacts.

One more to go. Then he might throw the thing away. Or overrun it with the Impala. Because he didn't need his cell anymore. If Dean died, he would run another path. He would go down a road that would lead him straight to perdition.

No one needed a cell phone in hell.

_Beep._

When John had found out about those kind of deals, he had cried. Simply because he hadn't known what to do.

There it was, a way to bring his Mary back. They would be reunited, if only for 10 years, but he would have made those years count. 10 years with his beloved wife and his sons together, it had sounded like a lot of time.

_Beep._

But then he had been assailed by doubts. What would be after those 10 years? When the hounds of hell would come for him? He would leave his family and cause the same pain they had endured after Mary's death. His sons would suffer a second time. Mary would suffer the way he had.

_Beep._

It had taken John many sleepless nights. When the pain had become so vicious he was sure he'd go insane, he had snatched the little box he had prepared, the box he was supposed to bury at the crossroads. Had grabbed the Impala's keys and had tried to sneak out. He had tried. He hadn't been able to do it, though. Reason had been stronger every time.

_Beep._

The box still existed, was still in reach. Because John knew one thing for sure. He would not lose his boys. Not one of them, not both. Would not stand there and watch one of his sons grief over the other. He was sure they could do without him. But without one another they were lost.

"_This is Pastor Jim Murphy. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message."_

John closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved to reach only his friend's voicemail. Because he didn't need encouragements or nice words. Those weren't helping. Especially if they came from a servant of God.

„It's John."

He paused.

"I owe you an answer."

Inspected the rug. Tried to keep his rising temper in check.

"You wanted to know where my faith is. Well. Thing is that once upon a time it had been huge. It was a large part of me, was the fuel that kept me going. Faith. Trust in God. I've been a righteous, devout man. That was before he decided to allow this demon to kill Mary. Before he decided that I don't need my wife and the boys don't need their mother. It was the day my faith, my fuel, went up in flames, together with the love of my life.

"And now your God, your big holy Lord, is reaching out again, is about to take my son just like he took Mary, and there's nothing I can do except take what's left of my faith and trust and enrich it with all the hate and rage and disgust that's seething in me and slap him with it, throw it in his fucking almighty face."

John stopped, his voice breaking. Oh yes, he was angry and yes it was wrong to take it out on his friend who happened to be a priest and therefore working for that son of a bitch who left no remedy untried to destroy him and his family but it was either that or smashing the Impala that was parked outside with a crowbar. And that was a thing he would regret for the rest of his pathetic life because it was one of the few things Dean really loved and if his eldest was gone the damn Impala would be the last thing…

He shook his head, tried to derail this train of thoughts. No. Don't go that way.

"I'm going to hunt him, Jim. When he dares to take Dean, I'm going to find a way. When there's hell, then there's heaven, when I can fight demons I can fight angels and when Satan is able to walk the earth I'm sure God can, too. And I will find him."

_Beep._

John listened to the voice telling him that his call has been ended. But he didn't bother to remove the phone from his ear. He just sat. And stared ahead.

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><p><em>To be continued…<em>


	11. Chapter 11

_**Author's notes:** I know I wrote this thing. But uploading a chapter is like unwrapping presents for me, I never know what's in the box as I tend to forget everything I wrote. So, this one? I was like, 'Oh yeah, that one! Happy dance!' – I'm curious what you think. I'd say it's a bit lighter in some ways, but then, it isn't.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

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><p><em>Beep.<em>

"_This is the weekly Winchester update…hunting evil since 1983…I hope you're doing okay down there, Sammy? Ladies, beer, California sun? Nah, guess not. More like, librarians, books, artificial lights from fluorescent lamps, huh? Sounds more like you, geek boy. Okay, so…we're somewhere in…let me see…near Wichita. There's something killing farmers and dad thinks it might be something for us. Anyway. Doesn't matter. I just wanted to check on you. Big brother, remember? Old habits die hard. Okay. I call you later then. Take care, Sam."_

_Beep._

Sam took the phone from his ear and looked at the display in awe. He had forgotten about those messages. How could he have forgotten?

He scrolled through the list, they were all there. Every single message Dean had sent during the last 18 months. Sam had never replied or called back, but Dean had left them nonetheless.

_Beep._

"_Hey. It's Christmas, bro. Which means it's damn cold, especially up here in Colorado. I bought one of those smelling cardboard trees, you know, those you attach to the inside mirror. Dad didn't complain at first but man, if looks could kill…I'm actually waiting for him to explode. He already made some remarks about the Impala smelling like a sugar bakery. Yeah, okay. The smell is kinda…well, it's Christmas, right? Happy Hanukkah, Sam. Wherever you are."_

_Beep._

He felt tears sting in his eyes. So many messages. And he had just ignored them. Because he had been angry. Because he had wanted to cut every connection to his past. Because he had been annoyed of being the little brother all the time.

Truth was, he had been angry of dad. He had wanted to cut the connection to dad, to hunting, to the supernatural in general. Never to Dean. And right now he wanted nothing more then to be the little brother. Instead of being no brother at all.

_Beep._

"_Hey. I'ss me. An' yeah, 'm drunk. Completely wasted, to be 'onest. Had a fight with dad. Jus' a small one, but…well… it was 'cause of you. Made the m'stake to defend you. Sue me. Guess what, ended up leaving jus' like you would…by walking out, slamm'n the door shut…'m a freakin' girl...thank God for the bar at the end of the road…anyway…jus' wanted to tell you that I'm proud of you…was the right decision, even if it makes me sad... But you're…you're a good kid…you know that, right? You do. Take care."_

_Beep._

Wiping his eyes Sam checked the date of this one. He wasn't surprised to see that it was the one he had received a few days after he had left for Stanford. It had shook him to the core when he had listened to it the first time. He was glad he was sitting because Sam was sure he would crumple to the floor now that he heard it again.

_Beep._

"_You won't answer my calls, huh? Okay. Suit yourself then. But you know me, I'm as stubborn as you and a pain in the ass and as long as I have a reception I can and will use my phone to jar on your nerves. And when there's no reception I can still throw it. Because right now we're really close, I'm sure you feel your nose tickling. We're hunting a Banshee in Pasadena so…don't worry, we're not going to stop by. Except you want us to, but I don't think that'll be the case. Until next time then."_

_Beep._

Sam remembered the Banshee. He had read about the different cases in the newspaper, and his gut feeling had told him straight away that there hadn't an average killer been responsible for all those deaths.

_Beep._

"_Yep, guilty. 'm drunk. Again. Sue me, lil' bro. An' you wanna know something funny? I's not dad this time. Actually, 'm pretty pissed at you. See, there's this big, fat, wobblin' question hovering above my head for quite som' time now...'m gonna ask you, 'cause maybe you have the answer to it...what the fucking hell did I do wrong? I mean, you never answer my calls...you never call back...what have I done, Sammy? You're mad at dad, I get it, and I can't even blame you for it but...I never tried to stop you from leaving, right? Or did I and repressed the memory of it? Dunno. I'm jus'...trying to understand here, you know? 'm at a loss. At least send a damn text message. A damn 'I'm fine, don't worry!' 'cause that's what I am, too, I'm worried, you know? 'm worried and 'm pissed and 'm disappointed an' damnit. You've probably changed your number or sold your cell and I'm talking to some other poor fella's phone right now, who knows...mister John Doe, if you can by any chance get a hold of that giant guy in dire need of date with his hairdresser who sold this cell to you, maybe you could tell him his brother wants to speak to him. Not a long conversation, no. Not much. Just...just to hear his voice. Just knowing that everything's alright. Never mind."_

_Beep._

It was pretty hard to swallow around the lump stuck in his throat now. The same lump that had settled itself there when Sam had received the message months ago. There it was again. The part where Sam had to think about his reasons why he had shut Dean out, too. Dean's upset message had left Sam helpless and distraught back then, not only because it had been very rare to witness Dean having a full-on meltdown, but as well because Sam had realized for the first time that he had no answer to his sibling's question.

He still had none.

Eyeing the small device in his hands Sam took a shaky breath. This had been the last message from Dean for quite a long time. While he had called almost every week before, Sam didn't receive anything from him after this one for almost two months.

He remembered how torn he had been between calling Dean and just leave it be. He had picked up his phone a countless times, had even dialed Dean's number, only to abandon the idea before a connection had come about.

_Beep._

"_Hey...uh...it's me. I know, it's been a while. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that we're good. Honestly. I'm...I'm still not happy about this whole silence thing, but...you have your reasons, I guess. Uh..okay. So...that was what I wanted to tell you. Well...dad's signaling that we're about to head out now, so...take care, okay, Sammy? See you around."_

_Beep._

And just like that, things had been back to normal. Winchester normal, at least.

It had always been like this. Dean never complaint. He never let on what was bothering him. Until he was hurting and drugged up. Or hurting and dying. Or found himself confronted with the final straw due to a wrong word or funny look and would drink himself delirious and then blurt it all out. And when Sam or their father, whoever had been the one Dean's ranting had been addressed to, would make up their minds and try to talk to Dean or try to find a solution, Dean would be fine and somber again. No need to talk anymore, all good. Which was fine for all involved.

The Winchester way. 99 problems but still running.

Beep.

"_Hey Sam. Have you ever visited Lake Michigan? I'm not the romantic type, but this is a really, really beautiful place. And there's a lot of work to do for us up here. Guess what, I'm currently on a solo hunt while dad does research at the motel. It's a second case, some ghost, nothing exciting. But I still can't get over the fact that dad does research. Voluntarily. With a capital V. Maybe he's getting old and lazy. I'm not complaining, though. Anyway, hope you're doing okay. Put on something warm. It's damn cold these days. See ya, bitch."_

_Beep._

Sam's breathing hitched. Pulling the phone from his ear he checked the date of the message. Monday. Early evening. God. This was the last message he had received from Dean. A few hours before that fucking accident Dean had called him.

Sam balled his hands to fists, almost crushing the phone. He fought the urge to howl, succeeded to stifle it to a low whimper, which was still loud enough to catch the attention of the few persons around him who weren't asleep or buried in books.

Dean had called him and he hadn't bothered to answer his damn phone, hadn't even noticed that there was a new message. He had missed his probably last chance to talk to his brother.

Oh God, how was he supposed to live with this?

With trembling hands he pressed the 'Replay' button and raised the small device to his ear again. In his mind he could hear Jess, admonishing him to leave it be, to stop doing this to himself. But he couldn't help it. He listened to Dean's voice, his vision blurring but his lips twitching to a feeble smile when he heard his brother use the term 'beautiful' while describing a scenery. Something between a sob and a laughter escaping his throat at Dean's amazement for their dad's willingness to research.

"…_Maybe he's getting old and lazy…"_

"I guess you're right", Sam rasped, closing his eyes, "Might look around for a new car, one he can get in without using a shoehorn. A minivan, maybe."

"…_Put on something warm. It's damn cold these days…" _

"You have no idea, bro. The cold actually keeps me from seeing you."

"…_See ya, bitch."_

"You bet, jerk. Just keep fighting. You just hold on, you hear me? I'm on my way, dad's with you, we're there for you. Just don't…"

_Beep._

The silence almost shattered him. Letting the cell drop into his lap, Sam buried his face into his hands and wept.

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><p><em>To be continued…<em>


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's notes:** Something tells me I'll get into trouble with this one. Please, be gentle...  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

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><p>The coffee wasn't helping. It wasn't strong, it wasn't good, it was dark colored dishwater that tasted like nothing.<p>

Flicking the plastic cup into the next waste bin John rubbed his temples. The splitting headache had been the first thing to welcome him this morning, closely followed by the recollection of the last hours and the reason of the marching band in his skull.

He remembered stumbling out of the hospital after they had revealed Dean's condition to him the evening before. Remembered a bar, a lot of heavy stuff in bottles, his arduous and futile attempt to drown the reality.

The first thing he had done this morning was return to the hospital. Sobbing and swearing on his way here, cursing himself for losing it like this, for leaving Dean alone. Begging for him to be still alive because he didn't know what to do if he'd return to his eldest room to find him gone.

But Dean had been still there, dark lashes resting on stark white cheeks, those ridiculously long lashes John loved so much because it was a feature his eldest had definitely inherited from him. The goddamn machine was still breathing for him, the goddamn heart monitor was still indicating that his kid had not given up while John had been busy kicking his own lights out with too much booze.

Dean had survived the night. Much to the doctors' surprise. And somehow John felt the crazy urge to ball his fist and secretly hiss a 'That's my son!'.

He walked up to the giant windows. The hospital lobby had almost become a sanctuary to him. Whenever he was asked to wait outside by the hospital staff because they had to do whatever they did with Dean, he came down here. Whenever he had the feeling he was suffocating in that room with all those beeping and whooshing machines, he fled down here. Only to regret it the moment he would leave the elevator because of the fear for his child.

It was still snowing. The blizzard hadn't retreated. No way in hell would Sam be able to fly here in that storm. The kid was stuck at that Airport in Detroit, left with the bad news John hadn't been able to keep for himself. Wasn't that just fantastic.

His cell phone rang and he jerked violently.

Probably Jim, ready to either tear him a new one for throwing around blasphemies. Or try to comfort him, dump some new empty phrases and catchwords to get him back on the faith track again.

Or maybe Sam, pissed like hell because of the weather and the whole fucked up situation.

Pulling the ringing device from his jacket, John frowned at the number. Nebraska area code? How many people did he know in Nebraska? Maybe someone who needed help?

"Sorry pal, got my own problems at the moment…" he mumbled, thumb hovering over the button with the tiny red phone symbol.

Something kept him from pressing it. And seconds later his thumb moved to the other button.

"Hello?"

"_John? Wow. I didn't think I'd reach you that easily."_

John raised his eyebrows. "Ellen?"

"_Yeah, it's me. Sorry, you don't know this number, right? I'm calling from the Roadhouse."_

Images of the old little dive flashed up in his mind. "So the thing is still standing?"

"_Hey, mind your tone, Winchester. It's actually booming so you can stow all your remarks right away."_

"Okay, okay." John leaned against the window pane. It felt good to talk to Ellen after all those years in silence. John had accepted Ellen's decision to sever all contact to him. He had been sad. But he had accepted it. And when she had called him a few months ago, needing help with a case, he had been glad.

Their relationship was still far from what they've had before. And they were constantly walking on eggshells around each other. But talking was a start.

"What can I do for you, Ellen?"

"_Actually I wanted to ask you the same question."_

"Meaning?"

There was a pause and a sigh. _"You know I'm a mother, right?"_

"I've noticed." Oh, come on. That wasn't happening.

"_Damn John, can we skip this game of cat-and-mouse? How is he?"_

The Winchester clenched his jaw. "That's just perfect", he growled, "Anyone else who knows about Dean? Do you have a bulletin board in your bar?"

"_Would you calm down? I talked to Jim and he told me. Not willingly, before you start ranting again. And for your information – he's worse than you when it comes to worming anything out of him."_

John didn't answer. He was about to tell her that she should mind her own business. That his son and his family and his life and way to handle things was nothing she had anything to say about.

But then, she was just worried. She was a mother. Had a child to raise, too, knowing full well what was out there.

"He's bad. Actually he wasn't supposed to survive the last night." There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end and a whispered 'My God…'. John could only grit his teeth at the mention. "But he did and I'm clinging to that tiny ray of hope as hard as I can."

Who was he convincing here? Ellen? Or himself?

"_That's…terrible. I'm so sorry..." _It was almost a whisper. Ellen was truly shocked, so much John could clearly hear. He tried to recollect when she had seen the boys the last time. It was a long time ago at least.

"_What about Sam? Is he okay?"_

Right. Ellen didn't know about Sam's new way of life.

"He's fine. He wasn't with us when it happened." No need to elaborate this issue.

"_How did he take it? Your boys are pretty close, aren't they. Must have been a shock for Sam."_

John remembered Sam's reaction. It had been as fierce as he had thought it would be. But it had made John feel low nonetheless. As if Sam's pain had multiplied his own.

"It was."

"_And what about you? How are you?"_

"What kind of question is that?" He frowned. "How do you think I am?"

There was another sigh.

"_Well, let me tell you how I think you are. You are about to tell me that you're okay, that you're fine, that Dean is going to pull through this because he's tough, a Winchester out and out. Then you're going to change the subject or you're going to hang up because you don't know how to handle that big fat wave of emotion that builds itself up at the horizon."_

John cringed. Was it possible that this woman knew him that well?

"So, why did you ask then?"

"_Maybe because I had the hope you'd talk to me in honesty and sincerity, John Winchester. I hoped that maybe you'd accept my offer to help you."_

Closing his eyes, John ran a hand over his face. "What in the world could you do to help me, Ellen? What do you want to hear from me? Huh? That I'm devastated? Running on empty? Scared shitless because I'm losing my family, first Mary, now my children?"

"_What do you mean, losing your children? Is Sam..."_

"Never mind. Sam's fine. He's not here right now and do you wanna know what's the strangest part of that fact? I just can't decide whether that's a good or a bad thing. Because if he'd be here, I know I'd try to wear my game face, show him that hard, strong facade I want him to see. But at the same time it would be so damn impossible to hide all the pain and fear, it would destroy me."

John stopped and swallowed before he added in a whisper: "But to not have him around...is destroying me as well."

He bit his lip. So he had opened up. Had let another person in beside his good friend Jim. And it felt damn good. To open up the floodgates. To let it all out. Not fearing to get laughed at for being a whiny little wuss.

Because Ellen was a mother. She knew how fear for the own child felt. How it ate you alive.

And she was a friend. One he had feared he had lost years ago.

"_There's something going on between the two of you, am I right? Sam and you? The hunting life still doesn't agree with him?"_

"Yeah, but...no offense, right now it's not..."

"_It's okay, it's okay. Not a good time, I can imagine."_

A silence occurred. For a strange second the Roadhouse bar appeared before John's inner eye, with all the liquor in rank and file, the strongest stuff he was yearning for right now.

"_How about I drive up to you?"_

The mental picture of all the imaginary bottles bursted.

"What?"

"_Get out. Sit in my truck. Fire the engine up. Drive up to wherever you are. In case you want to reveal where Dean and you are."_

Funny how everyone wanted to bear him company. As if it would make him feel better. As if if would make Dean better. For all John knew his son would shut down further with all the people in his room, talking to him, touching him. Dean hated to be hurt. And he hated to be helpless. Having Ellen and Jim and God knows who bustling around him, seeing him like this, it wouldn't suit him well.

"No. You have a bar to run."

"_Geez, John, don't you think I have my ducks in one row here? It's no problem."_

And all that emo talk? It was hard enough to keep a cool head while talking over the phone. To look those people in the eyes...no way.

"No."

"_No?"_

"No." John let out a tired sigh. "Listen, I really appreciate your help and it's...I don't need anyone by my side." Except Dean. I'd give anything to have him around, joking, smiling, talking to me. "I don't WANT to have anyone by my side."

Ellen was a friend. He hoped she'd understand. Another silence. For a second John feared his words had been to harsh.

"_Well, okay then. If that's your wish I'm going to respect it. But I want you to promise me something."_

He exhaled. Sharp, but quiet.

"What would that be?"

When Ellen answered, her tone had lost the challenging, playful tone. Suddenly she sounded soft, sad, almost fragile.

Like a mother.

"_Tell Dean that we're waiting for him. Tell him that here's a bottle of ice cold beer with his name written on it and I want to be the one clinking glasses with him as soon as he's released. I'm counting on him."_

Once again John had to close his eyes to block out the pain, only to be assaulted by images of his moribund son. The evening before the accident. When they had shared the last beer they had in their fridge, watching TV together.

"I'll tell him." He cursed his breaking voice. Cursed the raging snow outside. Cursed the world itself.

"_I don't want to hang up now, you know?" _There was something resembling a laughter. But it wasn't a genuine one. It was desperate.

"Go, sell some hunters some booze. So they can free this fucking planet from some more nasty sons of bitches." He tried to let it sound light and cheery. Turned out to be a pretty pathetic attempt.

A sniff. A slight cough from the other end.

"_Alright, alright. Call me, ya hear? If there's something to tell, call me."_

John nodded, forgetting that Ellen couldn't see it.

When he turned and saw Dean's doctor approach him, he gripped his cell like a lifeline once again, clenching his jaw.

He couldn't do this. Please, no.

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	13. Chapter 13

_**Author's notes:** There are a few shorter ones in store for you now...hope it's okay. _

_Here comes a solution for Sam a few of you have been suggested already. You're good, guys! Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>This is John Winchester, I can't be reached..."<em>

_Beep._

"It's me. As I just woke up without any message or call from you, I take it that Dean's doing okay so far? I'm still at the airport and it's still snowing and I know what the people at the counter are going to tell me because I already heard from other people waiting for flights that there's still no way. So, I'm going to rent a car. And in case you wanna try to stop me because of icy streets...don't. I'm going to try because it's the only chance to get to Alpena at the moment and I won't miss it."

He took another sip from his coffee. The third one since he had woken up. He couldn't remember when he had fallen asleep last night.

"Dad? Are you okay? Have you slept? Eaten? Are you at the hospital? I think you are...I think it's the reason I can't reach you. I hope you're with Dean, watching him breathe. Tell him I'm almost there, okay dad? I'm almost there. See you later. Both of you."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's notes:** Silence. Guilty silence.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>This is John Winchester, I can't be reached..."<em>

_Beep._

"Okay, I got a car. One of the last they had. Took me ages to get it but what the heck. Hey, and guess what, seems like I'm lucky for once, the highway's are passable. I'm...you might hear it in my voice, sorry for sounding kinda breathless here...I'm on my way to pick up the car right now...if I make good time I'll be with you in about 4 and a half hours, maybe 4 if I step on the gas. Dad? Call me, okay? I…well…I'm a bit worried, so…just call me when you get this. Bye."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	15. Chapter 15

_**Author's notes:** **just ducks head**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>This is John Winchester, I can't be reached..."<em>

_Beep._

"Dad? What's going on? I tried to reach you all morning. Answer your damn phone. I'm on my way. Can't drive as fast I want, though, but I'm on my way. Call me back."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_**Author's notes:** Ha! A sight for sore eyes, right? Many many many words for you! Enjoy..._

_**Once again a huuuuge thanks to DeansBabyBird** for having an eagle eye when it comes to language and muddled up chapters (a few of you might have noticed that I had some tiny problems with the chapters yesterday...)!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

* * *

><p>"Dad! About fucking time!"<p>

Oh, Sam wanted to shout even louder. Wanted to cause sudden deafness by swearing his head off. What was dad thinking? In a situation like this, how could he just ignore his calls? There's no way dad had spent the whole morning in Dean's room. Sure he had been outside for a coffee or breakfast or whatever and had seen that Sam had called, right?

"_Not quite, sorry, Sam…it's pastor Jim."_

Almost stepping onto the brakes, Sam bit shut his mouth with an audible click.

"Oh…pastor Jim…I'm sorry, I…"

"_It's okay. I know those kind of emotions when it comes to your father. He has this effect on people, but I'm sure you know best, huh?"_

There was so much warmness in the pastor's voice that it didn't take Sam long to calm down. He hadn't spoken to the man in years. He wasn't quite sure what to say but at the same time felt the need to talk to the priest just for the sake of listening to him.

"You have no idea."

"_From your reaction I take it that you haven't heard from John either?"_

Sam changed lanes and took his foot off the accelerator. It was the first time he noticed that his leg was cramping from pressing down onto the pedal like a maniac. Maybe a few miles at an average speed wouldn't hurt. Especially with the snow storm obstructing his visibility.

"No. Have you? Did he call you?"

"_He did, but has only reached the mailbox."_

"When?"

"_Last night, some time around 2 am."_

Sam counted back. That had been right after dad had talked to him.

"What did he tell you?"

The pastor let out a heavy sigh. _"Something I hope he hadn't meant like he'd said it, to be honest."_

He tightened his grip on the wheel. Sounded as if dad had communicated a few other things amongst the latest fact concerning Dean's condition.

"_Sam, how bad is your brother?"_

If he could, Sam would close his eyes right now.

"_I know about the hunt and that he's in bad shape. But the last time we've spoke John had been…let's say, more amenable. What has changed?" _

Sam's featured hardened. The road in front of him became blurred. "Did dad call you as a friend or as a priest?"

There was a pause and Sam could almost hear Jim put one and one together.

"_My God..."_

"It's one of the reasons I'm currently on the edge here. See, he called me last night, before he called you, to tell me that Dean's dying, that a priest is requested, that the doctors at the hospital have given up hope and then…nothing. He doesn't call back this morning, doesn't answer his phone, I don't know what's going on, he leaves me with the news that my brother's as good as dead and just…" Sam broke off, aware that he was about to bend the steering wheel thanks to his white-knuckle grip on it. The surge of anger brought tears into his eyes once again, he knew he was at the point of yelling at pastor Jim and that this was just plain wrong, but he couldn't help it.

"_Maybe that's a good sign? He's with Dean and doesn't want to leave his side?"_

"How is that good? If Dean's doing okay there's no reason he can't leave the room for a moment to give me a heads up."

"_He might have lost track of time, Sam. He's worried as much as you are..."_

"I don't care if he worries or how much he worries, I'm worried, too. And I have a right to know what's going on. You know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that Dean's gone, that he died sometime last night, alone in some fucking sterile hospital room, while dad was busy boozing and wallowing in self-pity, and now he's too scared to tell me because he damn well knows what I'm going to do to him when I find out."

With his rage the car started to swerve about. With one loud curse Sam pulled over and came to a halt on the shoulder. He yanked the gear into park and slammed his free hand onto the wheel in frustration.

He had said it. The fear that was growing since he had opened his eyes this morning. The panic that had increased tenfold every time he had listened to his father's voice announcing that he couldn't be reached.

He wanted to howl. He wanted to jump into his father's unshaved face.

"_Sam? Are you still there? Answer me, son."_

His hands were trembling. His heart was racing. Was it possible to feel light-headed just from pure anger?

"Yes….I'm here…I'm okay…"

"_No, you're not, Sam."_

He let out a forceful sigh.

"You're right, I'm not. I'm angry, I'm scared, I'm tied up in knots. Because I'm about one hour out of Alpena and I don't know what I'm going to find when I arrive at the hospital."

"_What about your gut feeling?"_

"My gut feeling?"

"_You remember Seminola, don't you?"_

Sam frowned. Seminola. That rang a bell. A very small one, but something stirred, somewhere deeply buried in his mind.

"_You've been about 16 or 17 at that time, you helped me out with that hunt in Texas–"_

"Dean had gone missing…"

"_Yeah. It had been your gut feeling saving your brother back then, remember?"_

Of course he did remember. Not willingly, not with pleasure, but those memories were etched into his brain, heart, soul like every damn event that had almost cost Dean's life.

One night his brother hadn't returned from a trip into town. John had been furious, had sworn like a sailor, had suspected his eldest to commit nuisance. Jim had just shrugged and had told him to relax, that Dean was a young man who had a right to be on his own for a while. John had been mad. Jim had been sympathetic. But Sam had been worried. Had a nagging feeling about it. And it hadn't left him alone for hours. Especially after they had tried to call Dean countless times only to get his voicemail.

It had taken Sam many words and many persuasions and more then one huge argument to force John into a car with them. It had taken him a lot of patience and grinding of teeth to ignore his father's ranting and accusations on their ride into town and during their visit of different bars in search for Dean or at least a trace of him.

Until Sam had lost it at some point, had yelled at his father for being an ass, for not even consider the possibility that Dean might not be in bed with a girl or completely engulfed in some pool game, that he might be in serious trouble, because that was what his gut feeling was telling him.

Ironically, that last fight had been the best thing that could have happened. Because sitting in a car staring out of the window and brooding came pretty handy when you were looking for something. If they would have been talking or fighting, they would have missed the tire tracks and the broken undergrowth at the side of the street.

And for once Sam and his dad had been acting in concert.

Had been out of their vehicle in one swift motion even before Jim had put it into park. Had rushed down the scarp side by side to come to a halt by the Impala, resting calm and peacefully on it's roof as if it was meant to be in a position like that.

Dean had been barely conscious, not enough to move but still enough to recognize them and to mumble a feeble ''bout time…'. Turned out later he had tried to avoid a deer and had lost control over the car. And with his phone somewhere in the foot well and him being stuck in between the steering wheel and the dashboard he had no way to call for help.

Half an hour later, while they had been waiting at the ER, John had apologized to Sam. For being an ass. For not trusting Dean. For not trusting his youngest's gut feeling.

"_Sam? What is it telling you now?"_

Blinking the memories away, Sam tried to find an answer to pastor Jim's question. Truth was, it told him so many things with the volume turned up so loud he was sure his head would explode. There were so many feelings, mostly bad ones, he just couldn't decipher them.

"I don't know, Jim." He sounded as defeated as he felt. "And I'm honestly scared that this is a bad thing."

"_Sam…"_

"I'm going to drive on now, and I'll try to get a hold of dad again. Could you do me a favor and call me in case you hear anything? Please?"

"_Of course I'll do that. Drive safely, you hear me? Don't drive faster then your guardian angel can fly."_

A tiny smile formed itself on Sam's lips. "Promised. Thanks, Jim."

"_No need to thank me. Take care, son."_

Steering the small car back onto the road, Sam checked the time. It was almost noon. With a lump in his throat he hit the speed dial.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's notes:** Okay, you know what? This is the PENULTIMATE chapter (yeah Sam, I know, no one says that, but I wanted to use it, I have the alien bonus)._

_Now I'm curious what you think what is going to happen in the next, the last, chapter?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>This is John Winchester,…"<em>

He clenched his jaw to a point where it might crack.

"…_I can't be reached..."_

He was sure he heard the casing of his cell phone grate under the pressure of his grip.

_Beep._

This time Sam didn't bother with a greeting. Or an insult. Or a word.

He took the small device that was the only connection to his family (or rather not) and tossed it over his shoulder.

Then he let out a guttural howl.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	18. Chapter 18

_**Author's notes:** As always, I keep my mouth shut at this point and let you read this one first...please see my notes at the end of the chapter.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

* * *

><p>He didn't hear it at first, over the rushing of his own blood in his ears and the <em>thud-thud<em> of his heart against his ribcage. An unhealthy but welcome tunnel vision, together with a rigid and unyielding foot on the accelerator had lead him here. Only when he turned onto the parking lot of the Alpena Regional Medical Center, a small part of his frenzy dissolved long enough to allow the quiet, almost inaudible noise to enter his awareness.

Sam's first thought was to ignore it. Probably Jess. He would call her back. Maybe pastor Jim, asking if he had arrived safe and sound. He would call him back.

It was a tiny nagging feeling that forced him to take the first free parking space, even if it was the farthest away from the main entrance, even if he had to park the car awkwardly on a heap of ploughed snow. It was that feeling that let him almost crawl onto the back seat, reaching out for his cell which was ringing happily away.

When he finally managed to snatch it, one look at the display let his world freeze.

"Dad!"

A pause. One Sam was so ready to fill with words he might regret later. Maybe.

"_Yeah. Sorry."_

His eyebrows shot up. That was it? Sorry?

"Sorry! You got to be kidding me, you son of a bitch, do you know how many times I tried to reach you? Have you checked your phone? What were you thinking? You can't just drop a bomb like the one you dropped and make a bolt for it, you know, I'm out of my mind with worry–"

"_Sam, just…stop, okay. Stop."_

Sam did as he was told. Not because it was an order. Not because he had the intentions to listen to his dad's excuses.

It was his tone that stopped him.

His father sounded…off. Tired. And quiet. He was almost whispering. As if loud noises would shatter his world. Would shatter him.

No.

Please, no.

"Dad?" And suddenly it was back. The damn constricting throat. The fear which had retreated and had cleared the way for the white-hot rage that had kept Sam going, had kept him driving the 4 hours from Detroit to Alpena, had kept him sane. "Dean. What…dad, what is it? How is he?"

With a trembling hand Sam gripped the door handle. With legs that were more jelly then bones and muscle he got out of the car. He didn't feel the biting wind that tore at his clothes and hair. He knew the tears pooling in his eyes weren't from the cold.

A sound so unlike for his dad reached his ear. A whimper? A sob?

A fucking sob.

"Don't say it…" Sam whispered, hesitant to take a step forward and away from the car, not trusting his body. "Don't you dare say it…"

"_Sam–"_

"No. I don't want to hear it. I won't listen to you…"

Running a free, trembling hand through already tousled hair, Sam fell back against the cold metal of the vehicle. This wasn't happening. This wasn't his father telling him that his brother hadn't made it, had lost the fight, had left them alone.

All the anger Sam had felt towards his father flew away instantly, all the things he had wanted to say to him, to blame him for, it melted to a puddle of anguish and pain.

"I wasn't fast enough...I should have been faster...I should have taken a car sooner...God, no..."

_"Sammy–"_

"No...he can't do this, dad...how can he do this? Leave us alone like that? This isn't real...tell me this isn't real..."

His legs gave way and Sam slid down to the icy ground. He didn't notice the snow crawling into the fabric of his jeans immediately. Didn't notice the thick snowflakes settling on the tip of his nose. The bright white scenery with it's muted noises turned to a frozen scenery, motionless and cold.

His brother was dead. The reason he had quit hunting, the sword of Damocles that had been hovering above their heads for all those years, it had finally snapped, had shattered his world by taking the most precious person Sam had.

Dean was gone. And he couldn't even tell him goodbye.

_"Are you done, Sam?"_

His father's voice was the only clear thing left in his brain. A beacon in his numbness. A clamp around his spinning head.

Oh yes, he was done. And when the moment came and his grief turned to hatred, his father would be, too.

The flicker of a frown rushed over Sam's face. There was a rustling, as if his dad was putting his phone aside. He was murmuring, whispering something.

Trying to keep himself from drowning in grief and shock, torn between asking what this was about and to just keep his mouth shut, Sam just listened, unable to do anything else.

"_S'my?"_

There could have been an explosion beside him. A dog peeing at his leg. Someone stealing the car he currently leaned against. Sam wouldn't notice. And he wouldn't care.

For the umpteenth time since he had received the first call from his dad, since his odyssey had started, Sam was about to cry. But this time, it had nothing to do with anguish or panic.

"Dean?"

Please, don't let this be a dream. Let this be real.

"Dean?"

There was a silence, and Sam almost crawled into his cell, pressed the little device against his ear with so much force it cracked, tried to listen, afraid of missing anything. The telltale _blip blip blip_ of a heart monitor reached his ears, accompanied by someone – _Dad –_ speaking very gentle and very soft, sounding like a heartwarming hum.

When had Sam heard his father ever speak that gentle and soft?

He was about to ask again, to say his brother's name once more because he needed to say it and he needed to hear Dean answer.

"_Hmmm."_

It was nothing more than the weakest murmur. It was a slow, short, crooning version of 'Yeah, of course it's me, who else did you expect, geek boy?'

It was the most beautiful sound Sam had ever heard in his life.

"You're okay…are you okay? Dean? Can you…can you…don't talk too much, okay? How are you feeling?" God, he was rambling but it was so damn hard to sort and organize his jumbled thoughts and emotions.

Another murmur, but this time it sounded like an actual word…almost crushing his phone, Sam strained his ears and listened. Dean was trying to get something out.

P…? Pee? Peace? Pichi? How did Dean even know that kind of thing?

"Peachy! You're feeling peachy?"

"_Yeah…pe…peachy…"_

It still sounded weird and off and so not Dean, it was hard to listen to and broke Sam's heart, but he couldn't care less right now.

Dean was alive. It was probably a long way to go from here, but he was alive. Still there.

Another rustling. Another whispering. Sam strained his ears again.

"_Sam?"_

"Dad?" Sam tried to hide his disappointment.

"_Where the hell are you?"_

An epiphany moment. As if a bucket of cold water was poured out over him. Fighting the urge to smack himself Sam scrambled clumsily and hectically to his feet, trying to remember were he had left the keys and seriously pondering over leaving the car unlocked.

"God…I'm so stupid…I'm here, I just parked the car, I'm almost with you…."

"_Then how about you swing your ass up here, kiddo? You're brother and me are waiting for you."_

And just like that, his father had offered the olive branch. After tense years of trying to be father and son which had peaked in an awful row and 18 months of silence, there finally was this moment of peace and familiarity that had been a rare guest in the Winchester household.

"_I'm going to hang up now, okay? Still not allowed to use a cell phone in here…"_

Spotting the car keys dangling from the ignition, Sam snatched them, slammed the door shut and locked it. He then scanned the hospital building for the entrance and started to run towards it.

"How do I find you? Which insurance do you use?"

There was a pause. God, he hoped they were using a fake name at all and dad hadn't forgot about it?

"_Don't you dare laugh..."_

Sam frowned. Hell, he would laugh about anything like a lunatic right now. "I won't. Now spill."

"_Dick and Manny Feltersnatch."_

Okay. How was he not supposed to laugh at that? Almost tripping over his own feet, Sam snorted. "Seriously?"

"_Shut up and move it."_

"Alright, alright...see ya in 5."

"_See ya, Sammy."_

He couldn't decipher his emotions at the moment. They were a hurricane. Joy, excitement, fear, concern, tension. Too many hours of too much emotional turmoil, dread, worry, a fast ride that had him close to veering off the street too often. He had feared an impact with a stone wall.

The impact hadn't come. Yet. Once again they had gotten away with a glancing blow. One that would haunt Sam for a very long time, so much was sure. Once again he was confronted with his worst nightmare of losing someone he loved. Losing Dean. Maybe some day losing his father thanks to some creature or monster or lore or whatever hell had to offer.

But maybe this was a chance, too. His chance to rebuilt a few of the bridges he had burnt behind him. To get in touch with his family again. Answer Dean's calls from time to time, maybe call him once in a while.

It was his family after all. He couldn't chose them. But he could be ready to accept them as a part of his life, with all their kinks and weaknesses.

Coming to a halt in front of the huge double glass doors, Sam took a moment to recover his breath. Raising his hand, he looked at his cell phone for a moment.

Then he turned it off, slid it into his jacket pocket and jogged into the building.

* * *

><p><strong>The end.<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Final author's notes:<strong> Funny, I just had to laugh so hard about 'Dick and Mannie Feltersnatch'. Where did that come from?_

_Okay, so I hope you all like this ending! It's a happy one and I think we all need that now, am I right?  
><em>

_I'm sure a few of you are disappointed I end it here. I know that there's enough stuff for more chapters. But as I said, this was an experiment, a story based on phone calls. With Sam arriving at the hospital, being finally there to see John and Dean, this story is told. Maybe there'll be a sequel..._

_I have to thank all of you for accepting the challenge, for not sending hate mails because of ridiculously short chapters and for plastering me with praises and lovely reviews, day after day! You're all awesome, you know that? Thank you very very much!_

_**MeAzrael,** my beloved Kate, from the idea to the finished story you've been my guide. Not only as my Beta, but also because you shared your probably most agonizing hours with me, spoke to me and let me in, even if you probably wanted to just run away from everything more than once, fed up with the situation and all the questions and sympathetic faces. This is your story, too!_

_**DeansBabyBird** – more DeansBabyEagle with the super sharp eyes :-D Thanks for your help!_

_So, what's next? I guess I'm going to run to my computer every day only to realize that there's nothing to post and, worst of all, no review to read anymore! Which is going to make me fire up my OpenOffice and continue to work on my next baby, 'Running Dry'._

_Looking forward to see you all again! Next time!_

_Barbara_


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